Thursday
by gummibar
Summary: Thursday was the best day. Oddrich.


It had become routine that on every Thursday of the week, Odd would lock himself inside the studio that had been appropriately set up in the corner of the little apartment in which he so resided. Ulrich's classes were the longest that day, and they also started the earliest. So when the sun would start rising and shades of orange and pink would begin to spread across the sky, he would barely crack the blinds open and let the sunlight paint onto the floor the way he imagined his own paintings on his head. It sparked inspiration inside of him, and he wasted not one second to empty out his can of brushes and start mixing together all the colors he could find.

It would start with the first blank canvas, and he would swipe every color he made and swirl around any image that popped into his head. The bristles would sweep across the paper so smoothly and he could only grin as he watched the images come to life before him. Iced peaks of mountains, prickly bristles of evergreen trees (that he'd never actually seen—not in his neighborhood, at least) and glistening waves of the ocean underneath sunlight. He could hear the day starting without even looking away from the paper before him—birds would begin their songs of the morning and engines would whirr as people dragged themselves out of bed to defrost their windows and head off to the jobs that started far too early. Even though the outside air was frigid and you couldn't even step out to get the mail without a scarf, the blonde left every window in the room cracked open. The gusts of chilly air would send chills up his spine, forcing him to keep moving so that he'd stay warm. He'd spin around the easel and jump from one can of paint to another, splattering against the piece and even his own clothes. He had grown used to it, though—nothing in his wardrobe felt comfortable anymore unless it had a splotch of crisp paint stuck to it.

In the earliest of the morning the tweeting of the birds was enough to satisfy his ears, but once he was done being more graceful about his work he would flip the switch of the radio on the windowsill and blast his songs loud enough for everyone in the complex to here. Of course there was the occasional banging of two floors below that housed the other residents of the building, but he only chuckled at the muffled sounds of the neighbors saying to turn down the music. After all, it was only once a week that he was able to do this. Thursday was his day. This particular semester of Ulrich's courses were proving to be hectic and he spent from nearly sunrise to sunset in class. It gave Odd all the time he could possibly need to get the ideas that brewed in his head throughout the week finally onto a sheet of paper. Every other day was spent, well, distracted by life.

Even though Ulrich was overwhelmed with his pre-Law junk, sometimes, Odd felt he had just as much—if not more, loaded down on him as well from the simple community art school he went to. Art was his passion, and also his enemy. If anyone had ever asked him to define or give an example of a hate love relationship, he would simply say: art.

He laughed more as he danced around the studio, occasionally using his paint brush as an imaginary microphone. The day always went by quicker than he expected. He would blink once and suddenly he'd see the familiar orange and purple hues that brought him into the room in the first place. On Thursdays, he didn't need to do anything else besides paint and draw. Not even eat. Really—he hadn't left the room even once. Although his stomach cried for the leftover fried chicken in the fridge, both his heart and mind had finally overpowered it.

The music came to a stop, and he dropped each used brush in a can of tinted water, his breath heavy and his hands cramping. He stood before the illustrations in front of him, smiling. And then the tiny glimmer of satisfaction on his face spiraled into an ecstatic grin as he saw the suns position in the horizon, the stars and the moon arriving for night fall, with the realization that soon enough the front door downstairs would be slamming shut. Just as the thought crossed his head, it came true. A small creak, followed by a heavy thud erupted from the floor below, and the scuffling of an exhausted man dragging his feet across the hardwood. Another thud—the sound of his briefcase being tossed to the side, and his polished shoes that were far too tight in the toes being eagerly kicked off. Every little sound Ulrich made upon his arrival had become signature to the soundtrack of Odd's special Thursdays.

Normally, Odd wouldn't hesitate to run down the stairs and embrace him in a hug. But his painting wasn't complete, not yet. And he thought to himself, just a little bit longer. Removing one of the brushes from the mixture of grey and brown water he had created throughout the day (because he didn't want to leave the room even to get fresh water) he once again began to draw the brush across the canvas. Today's work of choice had been the Eiffel Tower at night fall, and even though Ulrich was home and the day was technically over, he still wanted to fit the stars in the sky and the moon behind the clouds. With the music gone, the birds tucked away in their nests and the neighbors coming home from work, the only sound that now filled the silence of the studio was the gentle rustling of the brush hairs sweeping against the cotton canvas. It was like a lullaby to him, enough for him to fall asleep to had he not been the one standing before the painting.

Just as he dabbed the final speck of yellow into the ebony sky of his piece, he felt a familiar set of arms wrapping around his waist.

"You haven't eaten yet, have you?" Ulrich said, teasingly. Odd hadn't even heard him come up the stairs. What a sneak.

"Nope."

"Are you sick?"

Odd laughed. "No. It's Thursday."

"Right. How could I forget." The brunette forced a laugh amongst his tired voice, and removed his hands from Odd's tiny waist as he dropped the brush and spun around to face him.

"How was your day?" He asked, standing on his tip-toes to lean into Ulrich and give him a soft peck on the lips. Ulrich didn't really answer his question, only frowned. It seemed he'd rather not talk about it. "You know, I know a great way to relieve stress."

"Oh?"

"Yeah!" He scampered across the room and grabbed a fresh paintbrush, the bristles still stiff and locked into place. Ulrich seemed un-amused as he pranced up to him, dangling the object in his face.

"Um… drawing isn't my thing."

"Come on," he pushed. "It's really fun. And you've never painted with me before."

"There's a reason for that."

Odd laughed once more, and took a hold of Ulrich's hand, dragging him over to the easel. Gently, he removed the canvas he had just been using which still had wet paint glossing under the light of the room, and placed it against the corner—next to his other works of the day. He left a fresh, clean slate for Ulrich to take advantage of, but all he did was stare aimlessly at the whiteness in front of him.

"Um."

"It's easy. Watch." Odd took another brush for himself, dabbed it in shades of blue and purple, and swept it across the canvas. He beamed at Ulrich, begging for him to join in as he held out the same palette of colors he had been using the entire day. Hesitantly, he dabbed the brush in the acrylics, and brushed it across the canvas. The stiff bristles cracked as they painted the colors across the cotton, and although Odd was grinning madly at the sight of Ulrich painting with him, Ulrich merely had a look of disgust and confusion on his face. He was cringing at the lines he made.

"There," he said, dropping the brush on the edge of the easel. "Happy?"

"No! You barely drew anything."

"I can't draw!"

"Anybody can draw."

Ulrich sighed, knowing that Odd wasn't going to let him get out of this. So as Odd stood next to him and drew on his side of the easel, stupendous sketches of trees and people and stars, Ulrich continued to grimace at the paper as he made random…well, lines. And squiggles. While Odd was drawing beautiful profiles, Ulrich was barely managing stick figures.

"There," Ulrich said once more as he tossed the brush to the side into a coffee ground can that had been used for dirty paint water. "_Now _are you happy?"

Odd set his own brush aside, peering into the drawings Ulrich has splattered onto the canvas. Immediately, the blank look on his face erupted into one of hilarity.

"What is _that!?" _He mocked, kneeling down onto the ground and clutching his stomach as he flew into a fit of laughter. Ulrich, however, was not even close to amused. He folded his arms and scowled as he watched Odd rolling on the floor.

"Come on…" he grumbled, feeling his face burn. "It isn't _that _bad."

Odd could barely speak through the tears that streamed down his face. He forced himself up, brushing the dust from the floor off of his pants. He ran his fingers across his face, a smile still frozen in place. He leaned in closer to observe the drawings, and compared to his own, well, it was laughable. Odd didn't think he had even tried at all, and Ulrich could still feel Odd mocking him in his own head. The grin still plastered on his face didn't make him feel any better, either.

"Seriously, what is that?" Odd asked more softly, pointing to one of the blobs Ulrich had scrambled before him.

"I don't know," Ulrich bashfully mumbled. "A dog."

More laughter.

"Oh my _God," _he cackled.

"Odd, come on."

"What? It looks like a blob!"

"Odd…"

"You weren't kidding, huh?"

"It was your idea!" He shouted, shoving the screeching blonde away from him. The smile on Odd's face washed away as Ulrich's hands forcefully pressed against him and backed him against the easel. The canvas and brushes both came toppling down, crashing against the wood floor. Ulrich stood before him, his arms folded and his breathing heavy with his cheeks as red as the sunset beyond the window.

"Hey," Odd gently said with his arms hanging loosely at his sides. But Ulrich turned away, ready to scamper down the stairs and go off somewhere to sulk. He stood in silence with only his silhouette visible in the door frame, the darkness of the moonlight combatting against the light in the hallway before him. He took a step forward, and in protest, Odd grabbed onto the hood of his jacket. "Ulrich, wait!" he begged.

But Ulrich merely shrugged him off, hurriedly walking down the stairs. "Don't touch me," he ordered.

"Ulrich! Come on, I was just joking." His feet thudded against the old stairs as he desperately tried to catch up with him.

"It wasn't funny."

"Lighten up, will you?"

Ulrich only grumbled as he dashed towards the front door, ready to grab his coat and head back down the stairs and out of the apartment.

"Where are you going?" Odd called, stopping in the middle of the living room. "I'm sorry!"

"Out," he responded coldly as he flung open the door.

"Ulrich!" Odd grabbed onto his sleeve, tightly wrapping his fingers around his wrist. Ulrich scowled and tugged away, but despite his side Odd did happen to have a bit of strength in him as he yanked Ulrich towards him and shut the door. He looked up at him, waiting for his breathing to calm and for the frown to fade away before speaking in a hushed whisper. "I'm sorry," he cooed.

Ulrich sighed.

"Sorry," Odd repeated, his hand still gripped against the thick fabric of Ulrich's polyester jacket. Ulrich sighed once more while wriggling his arm out of Odd's grasp, spinning around to face him. He looked down at the small man with a frown on his face, and Odd stood in silence and waited for the tension to fade and for the glower on his lips to curl into at least a subtle smile. And Ulrich, as Odd's lips puckered into a pout and his eyes glimmered with a plea for forgiveness, couldn't help but give him the exact smile he was waiting for. Odd always won.

"Fine," he groaned. Beaming at him, he jumped into the arms of the tall brunette and flung his own scrawny hands around him. Ulrich laughed and tightly embraced him in return, his cheeks leaning against the crisp locks of his heavily gelled hair. For a moment they remained like that, basking in the soft noises of their beating hearts and the steady calming of their breathing, along with the chirping of the crickets outside that crawled out of the ground upon night's arrival. Soon enough, though, Odd broke the tranquility in the atmosphere.

"You really are a lame artist, Ulrich."

He chuckled, and pressed his lips delicately against Odd's forehead. "That's why I leave it to you."

More silence ensued as they stood before the door, still cracked open from when it had bounced back in Odd's forceful plunge, enjoying the moments of each other's embrace. The light around them quickly faded away as the sun dipped beyond the mountains and the sky blended into the same midnight hues that he had so painted earlier.

Thursday was the best day.


End file.
